I will water the plants

“…drinking it all in but
never filling, never filled…”

“This,” Luisa Igloria

I will water the plants when I get home, the nasturtiums’ quivering nonsensical tendrils, the fragrant thyme and globe basil, I will water them when I get home. I will care for these littlest things like I used to tend the altars, cutting wicks and wiping dust with absurd meticulous faithful care. I will water the plants. I will attend to them and drink meaning from my attentions like drinking life from the sun. I will put away the laundry which I washed and dried and folded with the unshakeable conviction that doing so made this day a better day. I will water the plants and put away the laundry and clear the paperwork from the kitchen table. I will do all this. I will slip into the not-cool-enough sheets under my grandmother’s quilt and I will not think about the hour–one or two or three–when sleep might crack like a fragile ornament. I will lay down full with the small tasks of the day counted up like marbles in a sack hanging heavy in my pocket. I will not think about watering the plants again tomorrow, I will only think about their undaunted yearning growth and I will draw a parallel from that and fill with it. I will water the plants when I get home.

“This” is in Luisa Igloria’s latest chapbook, Night Willow, published by Phoenicia.


the quiet

“…you become the sound.” ~Luisa Igloria, “Liminal”

I strip the bed, put on the summer blanket and quilt; the overwrought, anxious-to-please smell of household cleaner still rises from the corners. The sink is empty and the drying rack full, the desks cleared, the herbs watered. It is night and I am alone, pictures gazing down or averting faces from this solitary industry. How quiet a pair of rooms becomes in the puddling afternoon, how much quieter following night’s seeping tide when houses curl upon themselves like mollusks. I hold this two-bedroom-plus-kitchen-and-bath to my ear and hear the rushing of my blood, rushing like the traffic on Massachusetts Avenue, rushing like thoughts in the estuaries of minutes. I could do laundry all night or scrub the bathtub or unpack the last boxes, but nothing can hold back the salty, pungent fingerlets of quiet. You will press me against the sheets, flutter the curtains, give me back dreams speaking in voices made strange by distance. I will wake in the morning–will my breath remember me, will my spirit be returned back from the rooms’ shell, caverns echoing and empty? Will I remember the outbound journey on the ruffled waters, the sly unmooring of self the quiet night accomplished? Or will I forget, as I sometimes want to, and become something simple and untinged by loss, or loneliness, or the ordinary greatness required to live on the shores of this unborn and unrelenting sea?

Three, with photograph

Lotus leaf and water1



Faith coined to burn us out

Julia Cohen, Practice by Fire and Doubt

Stillness. A cold hand in your chest at the fraying edge of day. A hand plunged then splayed, unearthly chill, between your hot organs and prickled naked skin. Raking over and over your faith, fragile as ribs.

Faith is a body, faith is a currency, bought and sold, exchanged for goods, lost in a pocket, rubbed to disfigurement, buried under ash for centuries then rediscovered, an artifact, by a curious scholar in a brimmed hat with a bandana over her mouth, which is round as an O under the thin mass-produced cloth. Faith is fondled, faith is cheapened, faith matures too early and dies too soon, burned out on endless nights of endless prayers and votives and palpitating catechisms.

Always with this, before it and with it and after it: stillness. Cold and glassy-quiet, thick like liquid silver. No assurance of salvation on its far side, no steady insistence of right and wrong. It might be a fire burning black-on-black, void of utterable language. It moves like an ocean meeting itself coming and going.



and we’ve been taught
the mouth of the world opens

Luisa A. Igloria, That everything has a use beyond its given life

Solar flares. A dancer, arms outreached, waist wilting
elegantly; an empty socket in the hip’s girdle.

A religion of want. Of labial vowels, liturgies
of awful truths. Heterodox canticles measured out
by decay. Withered stems releasing their burdens
to an unseen world.

Heliospheres of joy, antiphons of silence. Nuclei,
negative space. Cenotaph and matrix. The single line
reaching everywhere.

A bridge. A cathedral’s ribbed vault.
The splaying knuckles of my hand.
A curtain, parted.



We must risk delight.

Jack Gilbert, A Brief for the Defense

Because delight is a little white boat
Because risk is a splintered seat
Because delight is a glistening applause
Because risk is a wind in the leaves
Because delight is the small flame
in the altar of the eyes
Because risk is the god of our beating breath
Because delight is the yellow star of a crocus
Because risk is the radius of winter
Because delight is a name I know
Because risk is a body I love



Image courtesy of DS

in progress

Dry Lotus (42)


Inscribe. Revise. Rub out but can’t erase. Remark. Earmark: piercing. Empty, collapsed donuts, fallen tunnels in time, entry with a needle, exit with a decision. Hypoallergenic, but never met a metal that didn’t cause an irritation, never met a year that didn’t leave another mark. Incise, impress. Keloidal bas relief, elastin artifice. The skin, the flesh, the body. The corpus in progress.
Image courtesy of DS

Night walking

Past the house with loud voices and laughter
falling from open windows;

past the old Winchester rifle factory, shattered panes
and iron gates, their long, decaying sway held fast

in the arms of rusting chains and steady locks.
Past the greenhouse, always lit, and the raccoons

who pause in apprehension from their garden digging
as I pass

under the striated blue loam of evening
and the loess of stars

blown in slow migration across our fading summer;
past the blinkered apartments, the man on a cell phone

speaking a different language in the parking lot,
along Mansfield to Division Street and beyond

to where someone blows her nose like a sudden shout,
hidden on a back porch,

to where the street ends in a T and I stop to sit
on someone else’s stairs and watch a lone mailman

making deliveries long after hours, and to return
his greeting.

And I sit with an acrid burn in my throat,
smoke of memory, taste of longing

for a street on which every face is a face I know and every hand
beckons me in; a fiction

but one so nearly brought to narrate the days
in other places, other paths

that sometimes the night feels like a loss,
and sometimes a blessing

that a city so unknowing grants this space
to recall such things unhindered, and then begin

the walk back, the empty house;
these words, a filament of breath exhaled

to reach beyond the bright, dark oceans
to where another life was lived.


Today was the last day of classes; in honor of that, I composed a fu (賦). Fu, translated into English as “rhapsody,” is a genre of Chinese poetry characterized by ornate language and exhaustive cataloguing. The first fu began appearing around 200 BCE, epitomized in that period by Sima Xiangru. Arthur Waley emphasized the incantatory power of the language and rhetoric of fu; but frankly, while studying them this semester, I didn’t see the point to fu. They were long and bored me. If a stupor were equivalent to an incantation-induced trance, then…I guess so.

But then, for the last day of classes, to honor both the great seminar in which we read ancient Chinese literature and, in particular, to pay a satirical honor to the professor under whose guidance we engaged those texts, I decided to compose a fu of my own. And it was fun! In trying to compose a fu, I understood better the charisma it exerts on the writer, and possibly on the audience (remembering that this was probably an aural literature before it was a written literature). The context of fu was often imperial (ostensibly recited in front of emperors), and certainly the content was grandiose. Host and guest scenarios often provided the setting, and competition between two states or two capitals often provided the initial narrative arc. Our professor received his PhD from a certain unnamed Ivy League institution in New Jersey, and the current provost of another unnamed Ivy League institution in Connecticut was voted the next president of that institution this year, just to set the scene for you.

There are problems with my fu. The section on flowers in the “Poem on the Courtyard” is too fu-like to be included in a hymn, which is closer to what those two poems are. Furthermore, time constraints meant that I didn’t flesh out some of the other aspects of a typical fu. Nonetheless: “The Rhapsody on the Green,” a.k.a. “The Green Fu.”


When the State of New Jersey from its preeminent institution sent an envoy to the State of Connecticut to that latter state’s Ivory Tower, after having been enjoined to wade into the wilds of the Hall of Graduate Studies and there contend with undergraduates and graduates alike, on the final day of classes this Scholar was addressed by the Provost of the Ivory Tower. The Provost said, “I have heard that the libraries and halls of Princeton are rung round with prestige, and that the lawns and vales ring with good learning. But now that you have come to this haven and seen our Ivory Tower, our faux Gothic carapace, witnessed the assiduity with which we address ourselves to study, observed our skill in navigating Shopping Period and scheduling Reading Week, having seen our fervent wedding of the most profound theoretical frameworks with popular culture every chance we get, can you say that Princeton has anything as anachronistically grand as our architecture or as abstruse and recondite as our seminar discussions? Tell me; I long to hear your thoughts.”

The Scholar glanced at the Provost and said, “Good Sir Provost, I can’t see the point in comparisons. It is well-known that what for one is a balm may for another be a bane, what for one is a medicine may for another be a poison. For some, the Tigers, for others, Handsome Dan. And does not Harvard’s 2012 endowment exceed either Princeton’s or Yale’s? Would not the two then be united against the Crimson by virtue of that shared inferiority? A rival becomes an ally; if that is the case, then how should we measure each absolutely against the other? We cannot but come to see the differences as simply relative. Why sink into petty comparisons? Let me instead discourse on literature, and ancient sages, and expound for you the dao of scholars.”

The Provost said, “I would hear it.”

The Scholar bowed his head, and began.

Literature stands at the center of things, like a New England town green,
with the pattern of its form well-established and its boundaries clearly marked.
Across it travel the multitudes, the common freshman humming Taylor Swift
or the furrow-browed senior, rifling through the leaves for exemplary passages
and bolstering arguments. Graduate students refine themselves within its gates,
frequent favorite spots, gather to argue and discuss at peripheral coffee shops.
Professors and enthusiasts recline or stroll her paths,
knowing this turn and that, recognizing each flourishing species of text,
each delicate unfurling line, taxonomies of knowledge and art.

To the north,

White oak and bear oak, blazing maple and speckled alder,
towering willow flecked with spring’s green,
sugar maple, yellow birch, white ash, paper birch,
ornamental cherry, forsythia, ilex opaca with her red berries,
box elder, mountain maple, flowering dogwood,
New England magnolia, tulip trees, Possumwood,
American beech, green ash, mountain-laurel, black tupelo,
silky sassafras, sweet viburnum, and American elm.
These trees are the great foundational texts of literature,
the texts established before memory by the sages,
culled from the tangled wilds and chosen
for beauty and utlity, greatness of breadth and canopy
or delicacy and grace, and planted on the green of cultured literature
that we might learn, what is to be learned and transmitted,
how we are to form our own gardens and nurture the past
to bring forth seeds to bear fruit into the future,
that a sturdy and vibrant common of literature, lacking none
of the great examples but giving space for new growth between
those deep and gnarled roots, might be established.

To the south,

Union Station, with tracks leading to the Shore Line and Providence,
Boston, all points between, and on down to Stamford, New York, even
New Jersey, further south, to Washington DC, Baltimore,
from those hubs, other buses and planes depart,
London, Paris, Berlin, Hong Kong, Beijing, Tokyo, Calcutta,
Sydney or Seoul, Ullanbataar, Katmandu–
from the starting point of this green, all other places may be reached,
starting from those places, all may find their way here,
the arteries and veins of highways and local roads,
Boston Post, the Merrit, I-95 and I-90, Route 10, Route 8,
Zipcar or Megabus, a friend’s borrowed ride or one hitched,
airport shuttle and taxi, for the brave a bicycle and nerves of steel.
This criss-crossing network of roads and their modes of transportation
are the approaches to literature, the ways and methods by which
one may arrive at understanding. Some are ancient, following footpaths
the first scholars trod, and others are new, only recently paved
in PhD dissertations and prepared for publication.
Owen and Kern and Knechtges and Nylan,
Kongzi and Mengzi and Laozi and Zhuangzi, Derrida or Foucoult and others even,
roads not yet carved, asphalt not yet poured, the way not yet paved,
this further work the work of future generations, scholars-to-be,
who may affirm or challenge, reify or deconstruct, accept, question, or synthesize
the paths defined by those who came before. Only, would-be scholars
must lay out their arguments in two pages or less; brevity sharpens the meaning,
enforces the essence of thought and curbs prolix verbiage.
Only fu are exempt: they may wander like New Deal public works,
may cover vast philosophical grounds and unite parties disparate
in time, in place, and in attitude, a universe of thought.

To the east,

The Long Island Sound, an estuary of the Atlantic Ocean,
contains in its salt-water the taste of that larger body of water,
itself but one of the several great oceans and many smaller
which wash and water the continents and islands of Earth.
By its watery nature the Sound indicates the greater constituent of which it is,
by its particular animals, fish both marine and anadromous,
and sharks, which are fish too, mollusks, crustaceans, mammals,
reptiles, amphibians, birds, the plover and heron, sandpiper, mallard,
broadbill and egret, too numerous to name,
its own tides and shores, salt-marshes and cattail marshes,
moraine-formed beaches, river-mouths and islands,
with all these the Sound reminds us that particularity and universality
are but two faces of the same globe, alternating in turn,
the large and the small, lakes and seas, sounds and straits,
fresh and salt, like this are the Long Island Sound and the Atlantic Ocean.
Their essence is water, their activity the sublunar and antipodal tides,
their characteristics manifest in relative size, salinity, flora, and fauna.
These bodies of water are the languages of culture, the particular grammars
and alphabets or glyphs of states and countries and peoples, defined and located,
both bound to place and apt to wander, as currents wander, and travel,
as leviathans and whales, and transform and modify, arriving in new climates,
or be transplanted and translated. Their essence is consciousness, their activity
communication, their characteristics are Indo-European, Sino-Tibetan, Altaic,
Afroasiatic, or Dravidian. These waters of language circumference
literature, ringing round it like the Mill or West River, bordering literature
like the Sound and the Harbor, water the roots of its trees with the smallest drops
and translate its canons to distant lands.

To the west,

The University, the Ivory Tower, the crenellated carrillon and Sterling Memorial,
blessed by Sophia, its walls and walkways well-patterned,
the post-renovation undergraduate dorms and Bass Library,
cloisters to the liberal arts ringing with acapella, Science Hill
in inclined austerity making breathless those seekers, vaults with strange,
secret names, and the labrythine bowels of SSS, LC, WLH, Mason, Dunham, SPL,
Becton, Kline, and SCL. Here scholars and would-be scholars make their home.
They recline upon the University’s vast stores and take her amenities for good friends,
the libraries filled with rare print, select tomes, sheaves of gathered learning ripening
in the sun of liberality. And who does this collecting, selecting, gathering?
Who directs young minds toward first understanding, older minds toward critical volumes,
who, having refined her own knowledge first, is able to assist in the refinement of others,
or at the very least, signal the general path? Scholars are: they who have mastered
languages obscure and difficult, conducted inter-disciplinary research and can espouse
theories of material culture development and dragons, who find delight
in challenging the prevailing models, and can quote, in the original Greek,
the first lines of epics too numerous to list. These are scholars.
But do not think a scholar confined to the Tower. Literature does not lie within the campus,
is not to be found contained within a cloister or courtyard. Though stately
and well-cultivated, literature is properly of the public domain.
Scholars deep in wisdom know this, and though they live in the Tower
they abide in the world, walking the ways of ancient sages gone before,
standing where they stood, that present scholars and past sages
might be united amongst the glens and stands of literature in a single poetic view.
Wandering, scholars apply for fellowships, do study abroad, taste the strange salt
of other seas and smell the strange scents of other cities, and master
colloquial languages needed for secondary research. They then return,
to transmit what they have learned and to point the way. This Empire of Learning
extends beyond this one university, to embrace other lycea and scholars too.
Annual gatherings of academics will prove the breadth and height of this Empire.
From all over the land scholars will gather, to present papers and leave presentations early
to converse with old colleagues, to exchange and debate ideas.
Pledges and toasts will be exchanged back and forth, and these scholars
will step out virtue and sing forth benevolence. They will come
from every kind of university, and pay tribute to knowledge and literature
with offerings of scholarship exciting, wonderful, and new. Above all, the true scholar knows
that the University may serve as a protective pass, but that true learning
sets no external boundaries.

“Good Sir Provost, this is my discourse.” And with this, the Scholar bowed and stepped back, as was proper. The Provost, startled, at first looked pale, then he brightened, his countenance shining, and said, “Good Scholar! Profound and revelatory was this discourse! Indeed, such understanding of literature, scholars, and the University is rare to find, even more difficult to hire into a faculty. I would bestow on you the greatest honor to make your erudition known to all, and ask if you would join my bluegrass band when I am President of this University.” To this, the Scholar consented, and thereupon the Provost composed the following poems, to delight and instruct the entire faculty, administration, and staff:

The Renovated Hall Poem

Oh clean, well-ventilated Renovated Hall!
The Hall is extremely well-made,
replete with wifi access, Bluetooth, and iPad compatible projectors.
Classrooms arrayed like the nodes of a net,
guest students and host scholars traversing the corridors
like shining drops of dew sliding along filaments.
This is the resplendant Hall, presided over by Sophia,
where minds are banqueted and fed,
where cogent arguments are formed
and scything theories constructed, and subsequently
published. Oh Renovated Hall! Oh alumni giving!
Oh capital drives! Oh endowment, accruing interest!
Long will you renovate and house the University,
Long may your own lives shine on, for ten thousand years.

The Courtyard Poem

Here is the Courtyard,
the Courtyard with daffodils of many species, phlox,
rhodendron, slender vetch, lyre-leaved sage,
common skullcap, mugwort, early blue violet,
trumpet-creepers, sweet clover, white fringed orchid,
mudwort, foxglove and beardtongue, culver’s root,
field pansy, mayapple, trilliums and bloodroot,
wild madder, cow parsnip, seaside angelica,
hop clover, golden hedge hyssop, butter-and-eggs,
yellow iris, mullein, bellwort, celandine, evening primrose,
and pimpernel. And among the flowers, picking and plucking,
gathering and arranging, making garlands and crowns,
wreaths and curtains, go the undergraduates.
The Master of the College arrives–it is a Master’s Tea!
Dignitaries and luminaries arrive and depart,
guests are invited. Surely the Master has chosen well!
Surely the honored Guest will delight the audience
with sagely wisdom and profound knowledge, witty bon mots
and trenchant observation! The luminous wind of learning
scatters the darkness of ignorance throughout the yard!
Long will we remember the Courtyard and its brightness.


Cold, then colder. Barefoot in the zendo, shush of feet on the hardwood floors. No birdsong in the dawn, foretelling rain. Trashtruck dumptruck rattling up the street, somebody’s gotta do it, hear the bang of the lids, the shouts of the burly men. Imagine they are burly, on the cushion, eyes closed in the half-sleep, half-wake of meditation. Open. Close. The heart banging like a pair of heels drumming a floor, a toddler, someone’s kid, kicking against the rungs of a chair, maybe laid out with legs up a wall and pounding tiny heels into the wallpaper. Floral. Or stripes. No wainscoting. Point was, heart is banging. Poor tired heart, poor thing of flesh that can be crushed but not broken, said he, I want to stay grounded in biology, he said. Oh but the heart it can shatter, it can indeed be crushed like the tomatoes that come in cans and we add to sauces, porkchops Italiano, that meal Mom would make when we were kids. The heart. Up into the dawn hours, that second watch of the night, sleep so thin and unsatisfying, woke with a heart banging with exhaustion and that last 10 pm cup of coffee. I think the heart can break. I have no evidence of that to put in your textbook. Cold, then colder. The wooden clappers. When we swam there was this moment when the long, undulating ribbon of motion would break in the air as we surfaced. Shift. A different momentum. A sense of having been interrupted. How slow and patient was the heavy bent-light blue of water, and our bodies within it, all that otherworldly water-patience interrupted when we broke in froth and oxygenated fury. That’s those clappers, snap-clap-crack, the surface of meditation and the breath broken with a gasp. Life-giving breakage of each breath. Hours later, stepping out of the house, it was cold. Then colder, day the color of raw uncarded wool, or the milky quartz striating the rocks washed up off Puget Sound. Seattle. White when dry, thickly grayish when wet. The inside of the heart is at least a bit dampish, even at its worst, I hope, I don’t like to remember the days when the heart felt like desert sand, when it was cold as a dawn hearth in winter. Scraping out the flying ashes and flakey charcoal of the night before, scraped out, hollow, cold. Crushed charcoal for a heart, can you imagine, there would be nothing to take in your hands and squeeze, no, nothing to mold like a piece of bread pinched off and rolled into a ball before being popped into a mouth. The world chews, hearts are crushed. Wash us with a bit of that sanctified wine, you there, we are consubstantiated, there is both the mortal fleshy heart and that thing, that shattered broken luminous thing, banging like a lover on the door, like wings against air.